Page 16 of Miss Devoted
“What does a pretty young widow in men’s clothing mean when she alludes to yearnings denied?” Michael muttered.
Nothing prurient. Of necessity, he had a finely honed instinct for when flirtation approached proposition, and Mrs. Fremont had notevenbeen flirting with him. He was absorbed with the question of what yearnings might plague her when his feet took the turn onto Circle Lane without his having told them to do so.
“She likely yearns to exhibit, to sell her work.To succeed.” Grand portraits in the tradition of Lawrence and Reynolds, and the grand commissions to go with them.
Michael stopped at the foot of the steps before No. 209, as he had stopped on countless other nights. He’d blow a kiss, mutter a prayer, and get back to Lambeth, hoping that his good wishes were somehow manifest to the people inside.
The more we deny ourselves, the more insistently our yearnings clamor for our attention.
Sunday evening was the high point of his week, the consolation for every woe and misery. He yearned for Sunday evenings and guarded them with the ferocity of Cerberus at the gate of the underworld.
The street was deserted, the hour approaching midnight. Nobody would know.
Michael took himself into the alley that ran parallel to Circle Lane. The tiny garden was dreary and dark, but he did not need to see to fit his key into the lock on the back door. He was careful to lock up behind himself—no part of London was safe from thievery—and made his way soundlessly up the back steps.
He emerged onto the second floor, crossed the corridor, and opened the opposite door. Silently, he doffed hat, gloves, and scarf and propped his walking stick at the foot of the bed. He settled into the rocking chair near the hearth, wishing he could add coal to the banked fire, or light a few tapers, but one did not waste candles or waken those who dearly needed their rest.
“I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m here, and I love you. I will always love you.”
“Where has Mrs. Buckthorn got off to this evening?” Mr. Delancey asked, hanging his black top hat on a hook on the back of the studio door. Psyche’s painting smock, spattered with every color of the rainbow, hung below it.
A study in contrast, just as Mr. Delancey’s person—masculine, vigorous, restless—contrasted with the comfortable appointments of the room itself. Psyche had spent the days since hiring him trying to picture him in this studio, though the reality eclipsed her imaginings.
She took his cloak and draped it over the back of a chair near the hearth. “Aunt Hazel is involved in myriad charitable committees, and one of her favorites meets without fail on Thursday evenings. She leaves me in peace when I’m in my studio, even if she does stay in. You did not arrive here in a cab, Mr. Delancey.”
He’d been punctual, though. Psyche had been listening for the clatter of coach wheels on the cobbles and had heard none.
“The evening air appealed to me. Does your staff also keep your activities from Mrs. Buckthorn’s notice?”
“And hers from mine, with our mutual thanks for sparing the household a great deal of nonsense. Make yourself comfortable, and we’ll get started in a moment.”
Psyche tried grouping three candelabra on the far end of the mantel, the better to illuminate the second wing chair. The fire itself provided most of the light, though that put…
Lighting would have been much easier by day. She shifted the candles a couple feet, which helped dispel some shadows but of course created others.
“What is our objective for the evening, Mrs. Fremont?”
“I’m not sure.” She tried moving the chair a few inches to the left, and that solved nothing. “To make a start, to get ideas, to become accustomed to working with a model in this space after sunset. I generally spend my time in the studio by day, and the lighting…”
The lighting was a significant limitation. She moved his cloak to the second chair and assessed the first chair. Tossed a pillow onto the seat, shifted more candles, crouched down to consider the possibilities of a low-angle perspective…
“Have you a dressing gown I can use?”
Psyche had found a combination of elements—chair, candles, firelight, books, hothouse camellias in a green glass vase—that might work. She straightened, still considering where she should perch herself for the best perspective on the whole.
“Why would you…?”Great God Jehovah in a nightgown. “Mr. Delancey, what has become of your clothing?”
He stood by her easel, not a stitch on his person, and though Psyche had seen him many times in a state of nature, the impact here—in her studio, alone, without her Mr. Henderson accoutrements—was… not strictly artistic.
“You are paying me to model for you,” he said, prowling to the fireplace in all his natural glory. “The setting seems a bit domestic for a nude, but artists pride themselves on the effective use of contrast. I hope those cushions don’t itch.”
Firelight loved him. Found all manner of warm tones in his complexion, sculpted his muscles and joints with rosy definition, and put garnet highlights in his hair.
“I had thought we’d start with a few seated studies, and I had not thought… I am torn between humor and mortification.”
Mr. Delancey turned such that his muscular backside faced the flames. The play of firelight on flesh, shadows dancing along the smooth curve of sinew and muscle was a visual symphony. Psyche had worked in clay enough to know that wasn’t her medium, but for the sake of posterity, somebody should immortalize Michael Delancey’s hips, buttocks, thighs, and…
“You aren’t in need of a nude model, Mrs. Fremont?”
